


The Young Master

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Playboy!Harry, butler!Snape, non-magic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry really needs to be taught a lesson. Luckily, Snape can be a very good teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Young Master

It was an insult that one so irresponsible and self-centred should be referred to in such a way. Thankfully, the Master never insisted, or else Snape might not remain under his employment much longer.

Snape thought James Potter was a complete and utter fool, but he'd worked in the Potter house for nearly thirteen years and the paycheques were more than enough to make up for his acrimony toward the moneyed family.

In fact, there'd even been a time when he'd felt pity for little Harry. Snape had a very good memory and he knew that Harry had not always been so reckless and rash. With his mother dying so young and his father completely incapable of raising him without an army of nannies and, later, a boarding school, Harry hadn’t had much chance of growing up properly.

 _That_ , however, was no excuse for this. _This_ being the irreparably annihilated sitting room of Potter Manor.

Snape was a butler, _not_ a housekeeper. The servants would take care of the mess; it wasn’t his job and he had no wish to make it so. There might have been a time when he would have gone above and beyond his duties—in fact, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have had a problem doing so again.

But he would not pick up after Harry Potter while the deviant layabout was still unconscious in the middle of the mess.

To make room for the wild party, and to save James' expensive furniture, the couches and loveseats and tables had all been pushed to the perimeter of the room, away from the makeshift dance floor.

Which was perhaps why Harry was now lying on his back, stretched out pretty as you please as if he were in his own four-poster bed, in the dead centre of the room. On the floor.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. The disapproving noise had, in earlier times, been enough to make Harry straighten up and cast his eyes down. Though they'd only seen each other a few months of the year when Harry had been home for the summer hols, Snape had thought he'd made an impression on the boy. That was obviously wishful thinking. Harry was out of control.

At least the rest of the partygoers had left before Snape had woken up. He wouldn’t have been pleased to be faced with a bunch of snotty, pierced, vacant-eyed, vapid teenagers on the cusp of adulthood, if their parents would ever decide to make them grow up.

Wading through the mess—discarded beer cups, as if the manor didn’t boast enough glasses to serve the Queen's own army, cigarette butts, and even, good Lord, a woman's bra—Snape approached the fallen heir and kicked him sharply in the ribs.

"Wha…?" Harry opened his eyes and immediately closed them. "Why am I outside?"

Snape sighed. For all the work he did, he really ought to have been paid three times as much. "You are not. That light is from the chandelier."

"Well, kill it!"

"Mr. Potter, would you please—"

"Ooh," Harry said, bending one leg at the knee. The action drew Snape's attention to the fact that Harry's shirt had ridden up, revealing a fit, flat stomach that was bisected by a thin trail of black hair. "I like it when you call me that."

Snape drew himself up taller. "Don't be absurd. Now, you have class in—"

Harry groaned and scratched his belly. Snape looked away.

"Don't have class today. Saturday."

"It is, in fact, _Mr. Potter,_ Tuesday. You have class in an hour."

Harry's eyes were bleary and disbelieving. "Tuesday?"

"Indeed."

"When did that happen?" he mumbled, but it was—hopefully—rhetorical. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up until he was standing. A little shaky on his feet, he grabbed for Snape, who quickly stepped back, not wanting his uniform soiled by whatever mess Harry had gotten himself into last night.

"God, where's the fucking couch?" Harry stumbled sideways and then spotted his quarry at the far wall and tripped through the mess without grace, plunking down on it and holding his head in his hands. "Seriously, turn the light off, won't you?"

Snape did as he was asked. "I'll have the driver take you to school. You're in no condition to drive."

"Fuck that," Harry cried, suddenly alert. "I can't get driven to school in a limo!"

"Have Johnson take one of the town cars," he suggested, rolling his eyes.

Harry groaned. He dug into his pockets for his keys and held them out as if Snape were right in front of him instead of halfway across the room. Snape, used to such petulant behaviour, crossed over to the couch and took them.

"Warm it up for me, won't you, love?"

Snape huffed. "Certainly not." But he didn’t give the keys back.

Harry stood and suddenly they were chest to chest. An ottoman with a small house of cards stacked atop it blocked him from backing up. With a lazy grin, Harry stretched, his shirt lifting and baring that damnable stomach again. His jeans slipped down another inch from their already precarious perch. Snape swallowed.

"Like that?" Harry whispered. His breath smelled like rum.

"Mr. Po—"

"Harry…"

Snape frowned. "It wouldn’t be pro—"

To Snape's shock, Harry's arms slithered around his neck. They were almost of a height, though Harry sported that heroin chic anorectic look. He brought Snape closer, their bodies pressed together.

Snape held himself stiffly. "You need to let go."

Harry pouted and then smirked. "No."

Snape put his hands on Harry's hips to push him away, but the act was too intimate and he brought his hands back as if stung.

Harry groaned a little and inched his hips forward, lightly pressing against Snape's. He nuzzled into Snape's neck, sniffing.

"Stop it this instant—"

But then Harry licked his neck—Harry, whose nosebleeds Snape had wiped up, whose hair Snape had tidied, or tried to, whose visits always left Snape in a mire of confusion and anger—and Snape couldn’t think of anything except—

—The manor was a mess and Harry would be late for school, again, and his friends had left stains on the carpet and cigarette burns on the furniture and Snape was fairly certain there'd been a bone china vase on that column and when had Harry become so _bad_ , maybe James ought to have—

Oh.

Snape grabbed Harry by the upper arms and the boy laughed gleefully as if he'd gotten what he wanted. He wouldn't—but he'd get what he needed, what was coming to him.

Turning them both, Snape sat on the sofa and then yanked Harry across his lap. Harry gasped and fell hard, the wind sailing from his lungs in a whoosh.

"What are you _doing_ —"

"What your father should have done all along," Snape said. Harry's trousers were already baring the crack of his arse—it was the work of a moment to tug them down the rest of the way, baring his bony white bum.

Harry seemed to be in shock, but when the first blow fell, he shouted and strained to get up.

Expecting this, Snape held him down and continued to smack his bum, hard, sharp slaps that made his hand sting until he tried cupping it, which made the slaps louder and much more comfortable—for Snape, anyway.

Harry, still tired and half drunk, eventually stopped struggling. Snape was relieved—he couldn’t have held him forever. The blows continued to rain down, pinking and then reddening his arse.

Harry was grunting with every smack, trying to predict and avoid them, but Snape kept the movements irregular and Harry was forced to endure. Then Harry became silent. Snape was concerned for a moment, but he was still overtaken with the desire to _teach him a lesson._ Snape was tired of babysitting. He was tired of watching Harry throw away all the opportunities offered him, ones Snape had never had. He was tired of seeing the revolving door of Harry's bedroom admit woman after woman, man after man.

Then Snape noticed that instead of jerking away from the blows, Harry had begun to arch into them, pressing back, his front—his crotch—rubbing against Snape's trousers. He was making little gasping sounds—sounds that turned into longer moans when Snape's hand fell and then lingered a few seconds, the scalding heat of Harry's arse seeming to burn into his fingers.

Harry's toes dug into the couch for leverage as he began to grind himself against Snape's thighs, and there was no longer any denying that Harry's cock was hard, that this had become about something much worse than punishment.

Snape halted his hand and pushed Harry off his lap to the floor, desperate to get up and leave and never look back at his folly.

But Harry turned sinuously on the floor and planted his hands on Snape's thighs, holding him. Harry's face was red and there were tearstains on his cheeks.

He was smiling.

In seconds Harry had Snape's trousers open, pants pushed down and his cock free. Before Snape could object—could find the desire and the voice to—Harry swallowed it down, Snape's not insubstantial length delving into his throat where it was massaged in the horrifyingly tight passage.

Snape gripped the couch cushion in an effort not to grab Harry's head and thrust up into the wet heat, but Harry's hand found his and placed it on the back of his neck. Harry pulled off his length, suckling on the tip and dipping the pointed tip of his tongue into the tiny slit. Snape's fingers curled around Harry's nape, guiding him deeper.

He hadn’t felt anything so good in years.

Harry's sucking became less teasing and more determined, and he was swallowing Snape down whole on every bob of his head. Snape heard the sound of a zipper and realised that Harry was wanking himself—Harry was getting off on getting Snape off.

The idea of that, and the fact that he'd been practically celibate for as long as he'd worked for the Potters, brought him to the edge too quickly, and even as he finished, even as he was bathing Harry's mouth in his come—come that was eagerly swallowed and sighed around—he realised that the end meant it would never happen again. It couldn’t.

Harry's arm was moving between his legs at a rapid pace. He rested his head on Snape's thigh, nosing into Snape's pubic hair and inhaling. By reflex, Snape's hand tightened on Harry's neck and Harry cried out, painting the front of the couch with his seed.

They were both panting as they gathered themselves. At least, Snape gathered himself. Harry seemed perfectly content on his knees, hand full of limp dick and stomach full of come.

Snape closed his eyes. He pushed his cock back into his pants and buttoned his trousers. He supposed he'd be looking for a new job now.

With languid grace, Harry stood and turned away, tugging up his snug denims. Snape's eyes widened at the bruises that were spread over his arse. He'd had no idea he'd been so rough.

Harry looked back at him over his shoulder, green eyes glittering. "That ought to make sitting in class a fun experience."

Snape's mouth was open—to apologise? To say he deserved it?—but no words came out.

Harry was walking away and Snape watched, too numb to name all the emotions that wanted attention.

Stopping at the door, Harry turned, gave a smirk, and said, "You know, we also made a mess of the parlour. Maybe when I come back from class, you could… show me how disappointed you are in me."

With a wink and a laugh, Harry left for class, or so Snape hoped.

If Harry wanted punishment, Snape could think of _many_ transgressions. Thirteen years worth of them.

The end.


End file.
